Wrath of Lions

by David Dalglish

  “Yes, but do you know why I was placed before the Judges in the first place?”

  Avila drummed her fingers on the desk, waiting.

  “I was a wild youth,” he said with a grimace. “I loved my liquor, I loved to fight, and I loved the ladies. I entered the academy, expecting a high position in the City Watch. It was the same position my father had, so I was owed it, right? That’s how I felt anyway. I was lazy, too self-confident for my own good, and I thought my future would be handed to me.

  “I lagged in my training, and Vulfram Mori, who was Watch Captain at the time, sent me away. My father tossed me from the house, saying I had brought disrespect to the family, and my mother did nothing to stop him.” He smiled then, though his expression brimmed with disappointment. “That evening I went to the tavern, spent countless hours drowning in my cups. A certain girl struck my fancy, and though I cannot remember her name, I remember her face clearly. Eyes like sapphires, hair like soft wheat, skin pale and supple. I advanced on her, but she wanted none of it. Just like my father, she turned me away. For the rest of the night I watched her laugh and dance with the other maidens, even steal a kiss or two from dullards who could not hold a candle to my strength or station.”

  His voice changed, growing cold, distant. Avila shivered, guessing at what came next.

  “When the girl left, I followed her. I dragged her into an alley beside the tavern, and then I raped her, stabbed her, and left her to die. Afterward, I made my way to my parents’ house and killed them both as they slept.”

  Avila swallowed hard, unsure of how to react. The deed was horrific, far worse than she’d anticipated, yet he spoke of it as though someone else had performed the vile crimes. She felt scared to speak, lest she break the spell and release the drunken, murderous beast from his tale.

  “A member of the Watch caught me later,” Malcolm continued. “I was drunk off my heels and covered in blood. Someone had found the girl’s body by then, and it didn’t take them long to put it all together. They found my parents soon after, and by then my fate was sealed. I was arrested and brought before the court, where the Minister sentenced me to death. I called on the Judges, as was my right.”

  Rocking forward in his chair, Malcolm met Avila’s gaze.

  “Have you ever been in the same room as those lions?” he asked.

  “Of course.”

  Malcolm chuckled.

  “Then you know the Judges are truly frightening creatures. I’m not one to scare easily, but the first time I saw them in that arena I knew true fear. I looked deep into their eyes as they stalked me, and I saw a world charred and broken, a world of death and desolation in which there was no law, no order. It was the underworld, of that I am certain—the embodiment of chaos. Then I saw my own reflection in their eyes. The chaos I saw in their eyes was the same chaos they saw in me. I’m not sure how I knew, but I did. I had become an agent of everything our god strives against. My life was one of slothfulness, pride, anger, drunkenness, and hate. Worthless. I felt more insignificant than the scum at the bottom of a festering wheat barrel. I fell to my knees, but I did not pray for forgiveness, for there is no such thing. Sin can only be absolved through sacrifice, as Karak has long taught. So I lifted my chin to the ceiling of that damned cold arena and offered my neck to the Judges so they could rip it out, releasing me from my sin.”

  He rocked again, and he swallowed as if he’d just chewed something.

  “Yet they did not kill me. Instead the male, Kayne, held me down while Lilah raked my face, taking my left eye and scarring me for life, ensuring that all who look on me know of my past sins. They then ambled back to their cages, leaving me alive and breathing. After that, Highest Crestwell took me into employ in the Palace Guard. Not once, not in all my days and nights of servitude, have I ever forgotten my sins, nor that the servants of our Lord allowed me to live.”

  He stopped then, staring at her with his one good eye without moving.

  “An interesting story,” Avila said, careful to keep her tone neutral. “Though I fail to see why the telling of it was worth disobeying my orders and interrupting my rest in the middle of the night.”

  “I tell it so you may understand me when I say that though we bear similar scars, we are very different.” He reached out to touch the side of her face. Avila batted his hand away, and he frowned at her. “You have lost your way, Lord Commander. You have forgotten that forgiveness is foreign to us. You have turned your back on our god.”

  Avila’s mouth dropped open. “How dare you enter my chambers and speak so to me? Have you forgotten your place, Captain?”

  “I have not,” Malcolm said. “I am here to be your council, your advisor. And I advise you that the path you are taking is wrong.”

  “I am a free women, a child of the First Family of Neldar. I will take whatever path I choose.”

  “Even if that path leads away from Karak? You are being influenced by a demon in an angel’s guise.” He pointed toward the curtain hiding Willa. “You have fallen from Karak’s grace. Sacrifice is the only way to make amends. Those whose lives you spared today were unworthy of such a gift. They should have been cut down where they stood.”

  “They are to be converted,” Avila answered. Inside she was shaking. “Our purpose is to bring order to the people of the west, not death. Which would Karak rather have, an army of corpses, or an army of believers?”

  Malcolm shrugged. “It matters not what I think, only what I know you must do. If you do not sacrifice them, then another is required. I know you love the girl…and now you must cut her down to prove to Karak you still love him most of all.”

  Avila stared him down, her two eyes to his one.

  “Get…out,” she seethed, then shot up from her chair to retrieve Integrity.

  “You wake up each morning sore,” Malcolm said. “You suffer from headaches, your muscles spasm, and your legs grow weaker each day. Where once your hands were smooth, now they are rough to the touch.”

  On hearing his words, she stopped in her tracks and turned to him. Malcolm approached her slowly, measuring each step, until he was close enough to touch her. He lifted his hand and traced the outline of her eye with his finger.

  “There are grooves here now, the creases of age. They are small at the moment, but they will grow larger, more prevalent, as time goes on. You are no longer ageless, Avila. Karak is no longer first in your heart.”

  She closed her eyes as he sketched out the new lines in her flesh. He didn’t lie. She had noticed the signs herself. His hand withdrew, and he held her close, palm resting on the small of her back.

  “You have lived your whole life in servitude, Avila,” he said softly. “I understand this. You have removed yourself from people, from the human pleasures all of Karak’s children seek out every day. You want to feel like a woman. Let it be me who makes you feel that way. Use my body, decimate it if you wish, wring my throat if you must. That is my sacrifice to you, so that you may find your way back to our god. But you must turn away from this lie that has enraptured you. There can be no more forgiving those that do not deserve forgiveness. This child is slowly warping you, turning you into a creature I do not know. I want the old Avila back, the woman who was the most trusted child of the Highest himself, who judged the guilty with swiftness and brutality, who would never once think of turning her back on her god. That woman, the true Lord Commander, needs to return. Do you not want the same?”

  Avila let out a short gasp of air, confused by his words, his touch.

  “I do,” she whispered, though there was no thought behind the words. All she felt was horror at the idea that Karak might be displeased with her.

  “Then do what must be done,” Malcolm whispered. “Lay her on the altar of order and become the lioness once more.”

  Her eyes snapped open. She saw Malcolm’s face before her, the candlelight washing out his features into sickly yellows and reds. She glanced at the curtain, then back at his nodding head. In her mind’s eye she
saw Willa, broken and bloodied, laid out on the ground just like the girl Malcolm had raped and murdered in his life before. Karak would never demand such atrocities! she silently screamed. Rage filled her, and she shoved him away. Dashing to her bedroll, she yanked Integrity from its scabbard and pointed it at him. Despite her anger, the tip did not waver.

  “Get out,” she said, her voice low and seething. “Get out and do not return to my quarters.”

  Malcolm straightened himself, his soldier’s resolve restored, and bowed.

  “As you wish, Lord Commander. I only desired to help.”

  “To help? To help? Instructing me to slaughter an innocent child is not helping, you bastard.”

  He shook his head.

  “Innocence is a false principle,” he said quietly. “It saddens me you that have become so lost.”

  “Leave. Now.”

  The captain turned and headed for the entrance, pausing once he shoved the flap aside. He turned to her one final time.

  “We will reach the Wooden Bridge in two days’ time,” he said. “The other divisions will be there, Karak with them. Do not think that the changes in you will go unnoticed by the Divinity. I will tell him myself if I must. My loyalty is to him, Avila, not you. Best you remember that.”

  Malcolm slipped out the entrance, and the flap fell down behind him, fluttering like ocean waves. Panic hitting her full in the chest, Avila dashed across the pavilion, tore aside Willa’s curtain, and dropped down beside the girl, gathering her in an embrace. The child’s eyes flickered opened, and she offered a sleepy yawn.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “Nothing, little one. Close your eyes. There is nothing to worry about. Nothing to fear.”

  For the rest of that night Avila didn’t sleep, proving how little she believed her own words.

  CHAPTER

  29

  The back of his head throbbed, and when he touched the sore spot, he felt a massive knot beneath his sodden hair. It was a burning pain, very much unlike the gash on the side of his face, which stung like a hundred needles poking him at once. Velixar grunted and spit onto the wet ground. He peered over his shoulder, spied the Wooden Bridge sitting there vacant, surrounded by the corpses of Wardens, wolf-men, and humans, both his soldiers and those who had tried to defend the bridge. He would have cursed aloud at the sight of them, but a hacking fit overtook him and he doubled over.

  “Here, take it.”

  Velixar saw a man holding a cloth down to him, and he took it, using it to wipe the phlegm from his lips, the blood from his cheeks.

  “Thank you,” he said, offering the cloth back. Captain Wellington stuffed it into a side pocket. The captain appeared nervous as he paced between Velixar and his remaining troops, the healthy tending to the injured. Velixar sighed and touched the knot on the back of his head once more. He fully understood the captain’s edginess, for in the distance was the sound of thousands of marching feet.

  This time he did curse, though it didn’t make him feel better in the slightest.

  They had been right there. Roland and Azariah, the closest remnants of his past had been standing right before him, ripe for the slaughter. They should have been defenseless against his might, yet the power he was so proud of had fled from him at the moment of his conquest. One moment he had been Velixar, master of demons; the next, he had been Jacob Eveningstar again—learned, ageless, superior in his own way, yet still merely a man. His insides ran hot with rage. He promised himself that the next time their paths crossed, the two would suffer long, torturous deaths.

  The muted thump of marching feet grew ever louder.

  If Karak doesn’t end me first, he thought.

  He reached beneath his surcoat and pulled out his pendant. It felt heavy in his hands, as great a weight as a lifetime of sin on a man’s soul. He released the pendant, letting it dangle from its leather strap. For the briefest of moments he considered tearing it from his neck, tossing it to the ground and stomping on it before climbing onto his horse and galloping into the forest. If the gods were kind, he could make the Tinderlands in a week and disappear into the rocky, desolate wilderness for the rest of his endless days.

  Foolish dreams, he thought. The gods are not kind.

  “I’m sorry, my Lord,” he whispered to himself. When Captain Wellington approached him once more, offering him a sip from his waterskin, Velixar turned him away. He would seek no comfort, not in the aftermath of abject failure. He would simply await his god’s judgment.

  It was an hour before the army came into view, looking like a serpent composed of thousands of bustling ants as the forces marched along the distant road. Another three hours after that, beneath the full heat of midday, they drew close enough for him to make out the roaring lion emblazoned on the banners held aloft at the lead of the procession. Velixar heard one of his soldiers shout. When he turned his head to the left, he saw that Captain Wellington had formed his troops into a defensive horseshoe, pointing arrows and swords at the forest from which the wolf-men had appeared. The foliage shook, the trees swayed, and then men emerged from the woods. Most wore the familiar silver mail over black leather of Karak’s Army, but a few were dressed in russet pants and cured deerhide tunics dyed a deep shade of green. Their skin and hair was like dark satin, their ears pointed. Elves. They were Darakken’s regiment from Dezerea, arriving at the bridge as had been planned. He did not yet sense the demon’s presence. He prayed it had obeyed orders this time and remained in Dezerea. The last thing he wanted was to see that disgusting beast before he had a chance to speak with Karak.

  Wellington and the rest of his men retreated to him as the soldiers marching from both directions began setting up camp. The field on the east side of the Wooden Bridge was huge, nearly a half-mile wide, but the combined force overflowed from it like fizz at the head of a mug of ale. They raised tents from the edge of the northern forest to the beginning of the southern grasses, and when Velixar craned his neck to watch the distant road, he saw countless more tents being erected. Only the Gods’ Road itself remained bereft of obstruction, allowing room for the supply wagons to make their way up the line. Food was distributed among the fighting men, and those from Darakken’s regiment, who had been traveling in rougher conditions, began singing boisterous and crude songs as they tore into the salted pork and pickled vegetables that were brought to them.

  The whole while, men worked around Velixar and his crew, some offering words of greeting, most giving confused stares. One group of soldiers, their eyes bloodshot and tired, shouted at them to get off their asses and help.

  “We should do as they say,” Captain Wellington said, fidgeting on his feet. His men chimed in their agreement.

  “No,” Velixar replied. “We stand here, and we wait.”

  “For what?”

  “For Karak to call on us.”

  “Why would he call on us?”

  “He won’t,” Velixar admitted with a shake of his head. “He will call on me. But you joined me on this quest, and so our fates are tied together.”

  “As you command, High Prophet.”

  Wellington crossed his arms over his chest and began to gnaw on his bottom lip. Velixar turned away from him. A small part of him wanted to assure the captain that all would be fine, but he knew there was no such certainty.

  Finally, when the sun burned low and red on the horizon, Karak’s colossal carriage snaked its way along the Gods’ Road. The carriage was three times the size of any of the other sixty they had brought with them on the long march west. Drawn by a team of eight massive chargers, it stood twenty feet tall and fifteen feet wide and rolled forward on twelve wheels. The weight was considerable, particularly when Karak was inside, so it moved slowly, a fact that only heightened Velixar’s tension.

  When the carriage stopped at last, a mere thirty feet from where Velixar and his men waited, the rest of the camp had been set up; soldiers were relaxing outside their tents, cookfires had been lit, and the horde of smiths tha
t traveled with both parties was collecting weapons for sharpening and armor for oiling. Just as always, the recently erected encampment was deafening. All the noise—numerous voices speaking at once, the clink of the smiths’ hammers, the crackle and pop of fires—mixed into a single, ear-numbing din. Still, Velixar and his company were ignored.

  Beside him, Captain Wellington’s stomach rumbled audibly.

  When the sun began to set behind the subtle rise of the western mountains, the twenty soldiers who had come in behind Karak’s carriage removed roll after roll of canvas from the storage space beneath the coach and started to assemble the god’s pavilion. Other groups of soldiers tore down their own tents to make room. Only once the pavilion was finished, complete with Karak’s banner fluttering from the pole at the top, did the door to the carriage open and the deity himself step out. All sound, save the snorting of horses and the crackle of flames, immediately ceased.

  Velixar fell to his knees, and he heard Wellington and the rest of his personal charges do the same.

  Karak cast an imposing shadow in the growing darkness. His dark hair flowed above his shoulders as if alive, while his glowing golden eyes observed everything around him. Unlike three nights ago when Velixar had left camp, the god seemed pleased by what he saw. He did not face his High Prophet, however, nor did he even acknowledge his presence. Instead, he turned north, toward an approaching brigade of thirty elves, who were led by a wide-shouldered beast of a creature dressed in oily black armor that looked like the skin of a reptile. Two swords, just as black as his armor, were crisscrossed over his back.

  Karak greeted them with a nod, then began to converse with their leader in the elven tongue. The other captains approached to greet the elves as well. Captain Wellington inched forward on his knees

  “What are they saying?” he whispered into Velixar’s ear.

  “Karak is thanking the elves for joining his righteous fight,” Velixar whispered back. In truth he could only hear every third word that came from the god’s mouth, but judging from what he could hear and the deity’s body language, he supposed his assumption was correct.